


Warpigs

by mudfrog



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dave | Technoblade-centric, Family Dynamics, Identity Porn, Idiots in Love, M/M, Piglin (Minecraft) Lore, Selkie-esque Dave | Technoblade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27280765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudfrog/pseuds/mudfrog
Summary: It starts in combat - Dream doesn't lose fights, and certainly not to a Piglin. All they know to do is trade, whatever this thing is, it isn't one. Technoblade doesn't take L's, and he certainly doesn't think about what happened to the Nether. He has a House to belong in, to ask for more is selfish.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Dave | Technoblade, Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 68
Kudos: 355





	1. Chapter 1

_New Moon of the Hundredth Year_

The slanting homes of the Wailing City is always drowning in fire, flooded by a host of inadequate sewage systems. Beady eyes watch from the shadows, clinging to the grind of a small carriage pottering on pressed nether stone, less lustrous than the pomp and bluster of the neighbouring carriages. It does not belong on the carved roads leading up to the spiral estate, the bones of its skeletal mares dull, strong calves muddied from toil in common streets. 

It is no less well-received than the other carriages, perhaps even more so, for the door is held opened by an eerie pig with blinking red irises, the light of the ball casting the war scrapes on his thick skin in the dim as he bows, a rough suitcase inexplicably in his arms. 

“You may take your skin off,” the Madam said, fettered in the carriage. “But you should never let _anyone_ hold it.” 

Head bowed, she steps from the open cab. An ornate hairpin decorated with heavy bronze flowers nests snug in the neat pull of her low bun. Guests could not help but be drawn towards her visage, appalled by the well-worn traveling coat hanging across her left arm, the elaborate pictures of fauna and flora embroided across her gown. Foreign cloth buttons linked her clothes, bold red and green against black fabric. 

Her skin is a warm hue coloured cool by the streaks of blue soulfire of the open gate. She stands taller than the servant boy gesturing towards the entrance mutely. 

Pressed behind her, like a haunted entourage, is a boy clinging to her finger, between the flux of teenager and child. Too young to have shed his skin, still a squirming young pig in huffy clothes. He is suffocated by the crowd, thinking sullenly on his own inability. 

* * *

_Present_

Dream finds a man east by way of the sun. 

Or perhaps, he finds a creature, for way of a better term. 

The sun melts into the white line of the horizon, sitting upon it like a voyeur. It casts an orange blanket over the cluster of sharp mountains, each more jagged than the last. On the other side, there is a sinking desert, an endless sea of white sand, with its warped and crooked fauna. It is what’s in the desert that Dream is looking for, a shambling temple and the treasures which sit at its feet. 

Climbing onto the ledge, he would have missed it if not for a fluke. 

In the deep valley between one mountain and its neighbour, there is a figure, and the distant, rhythmic sound of steel on stone. 

Red is clasped around broad shoulders, an ostentatious cloak disappearing into the dense grass. Its colour is stark against the glowing blues in the shadow of the mountains, some sort of animal hide draped over their head. Their profile reveals the sharp line of their jaw, a slip of white skin. 

Dream swoops below, hearing the crack of his boots on soil and the sliver of pain that strikes up his spine. There’s the warbling cry of an open portal nearby, which is good to note down- 

When he raises his head, it’s to a pregnant silence and blank, beady eyes. 

The man isn’t a man. Unnaturally crouched on their hind legs, staring at him, is a Piglin. 

Dream blinks. 

Its face is like that of a hog, a long snout and flicking, sloped ears. Piglins walk straight-backed, a lifetime of service etched into their stern, pounding gait. Their eyes are glazed with a milky sheen, crept into their core, coercing an endless sentry. You would never find a Piglin without its sword, mindless but for the lust for gold. You would never find a Piglin in the Overworld; if they ever had the knowledge, it left them long ago. 

Instead of gold armour beneath its cloak, it’s covered in dark netherite. There’s an old crown on its head, its gold rusted, crooked and bent. Rather than the white sheen of its eyes, it is a dark and reflective well. In its hand is- 

Dream’s brows hitch behind his mask, his heart quickening. 

A diamond sword. 

It gleams dully in the dark with a fluorescent sheen, and Dream _wants_ to know what its enchantments are. The pickaxe the Piglin had been using, presumably, is nowhere to be found. Okay look- he can get his own diamond sword, anywhere, but one in the hands of a Piglin? 

That’s out of ordinary enough that he wants it. When’d that happen? 

He wants that sword. 

He wants that _armour_ _._

Crouching, he inches forward, head cocked to the side. Did his brain trick him out? How probable would it be that he receives it after killing it, man or Piglin? One of anything. His mouth pinches, scouring his inventory. He tosses a gold brick in its direction. 

It sits between them, before the creature takes hold of it. 

It brings the gold to the moonlight, outside the looming shadow of the mountainside, and the action is familiar enough that Dream is a little soothed by it. By the quiet that drifts between them as it considers its new prize. It cannot be that different, if it trades as well. Dream can talk to traders. He flits to its side, staring at its blade, and yet it turns to follow him, as if keeping him in sight. 

It throws a single piece of andesite back at him. 

It’s the worst trade Dream’s ever made. 

The Piglin returns his silence with an unyielding, unmoving expression. They stare at each other for a long moment, and it doesn’t wander off the way Piglins are wont to do. It has to mean something. With a reluctant sigh, he presents to it another gold brick. 

Maybe his luck will change. 

The wait is much shorter this time, almost immediate. 

There are six pieces of andesite at his feet. Does he look like a garbage disposal. 

“Okay,” he says to himself, and to it, “You’re dying.” 

Drawing his axe, he throws a swing to cut it down, perhaps forgetting, in habit, that it will take far longer to kill on account of its ridiculous armour. He remembers his shield a split second later, when his blow is blocked by a quick, forceful knock of the Piglin’s diamond sword. He’d barely held his shield up before an upward stroke of its loping arms lunges forward to gut him throat to sternum. 

Tumbling to the side with a grunt, he gauges the clean turn of its heels to face him, and leaps towards it with an eye on the soft flesh of its throat. It got lucky there, and his attack has triggered its aggression, but it has a simple mind, and if he dies here to an over-enchanted pig, he will never live it down. A shield materializes in its off hand, and Dream’s axe wedges a clean line down its wooden front. The crack echoes with the pounding of his heart. 

Pushing himself off the front of its shield, he swings his body upwards to land behind it. It stumbles, hindered by his weight, the sudden axe. 

His hand gleams dully and the handle of his bow is warm, the arrow sharp; Dream goes for its head. 

It swings its shield round, its range extended by Dream’s own axe. It slams into him like a ravager, and he goes skidding a long ways back, grimacing behind his mask. The arrow scores a line down the Piglin’s right cheek, a shallow mockery to the ache of Dream’s arm. It twinges when he adjusts his own shield. 

Fuck it. 

He’s lost two hearts to this, which is more than he’d like to on something like a Piglin. It launches itself onto a small ledge on the side of the mountain, and Dream notches his next arrow, willing his heart to quieten its annoyance- 

It’s gone. 

The red of its cape is a searing phantom out of the corner of his eyes. 

It’s _gone._

“No, _no_ -” it was gearing up to charge him, it had its arms out, everything. But the click of heels is fast disappearing, and Dream stares mouth agape at the hole in the stone, the empty plot of grass. The andesite, and the throbbing ache in his off hand- 

It's gone and it _took_ his axe. 

His fists clench. 

* * *

“Woah, what’s up with you?”

Dream smacks his sword in George’s direction in threat. 

It invites only a bout of wheezing laughter. He considers the flicker of his reflection in the wading water. His clothes are pressed properly after a day of rest in the cooling shade of an old temple. Nothing but for the dour slouch of his shoulders and the ticking clock in his head gives him away. He feels _anxious._

George stands fishing over the crooked pier of the Great Lake, a wide expanse end on the horizon, and then some. His smile is unconcerned, and why wouldn’t it be? 

Dream is home. He’s fine. 

The bay is as communal a place as any, and the bamboo hugs like a wall between the homely buildings and the thick of the forest. Slim enough that mobs don’t slip through, at least not the ones that don’t know how to climb. 

“What’re you guys talking about over there,” 

“Nothing,” he says, immediately, irritation smothered by the heat of his mask. “I found some name tags, so maybe a, uh, you’re welcome would be nice.” 

“ _Nametags?"_ Sapnap scurries towards him like a rat, and George whoops, letting his fishing rod go against the pier. “Give me one, give it.” 

“Sapnap, stop it.” 

“You see anything weird with the Piglins lately?” he asks. 

George’s head snaps upwards, and his smile creeps wide across his face. “Did Piglins do this to you?” he asks, the mirth in his voice unbearable as he lifts the tag up against the light. 

Dream barely refrains from hitting him on the arm, but doesn’t stop himself from grabbing the tag and flicking it across the water. “I’m _asking_ ,” he says, above George’s shriek, “Cause I think I saw some weird ones. I think they might be getting smarter or something, so we might have to watch out for that.” 

Sapnap pockets his new nametag gingerly, smoothing away the sand stuck in its stitches. He’s watching Dream out of the corner of his eyes, with such a look about him that he half thinks he’s forgotten his mask. His fingers twitch towards his face. 

There’s a smile on Sapnap’s face. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice pressed with restrained humour, “I think they’ve actually got a system going now where you give them money and they give you things.” 

_“Oh_ my god,” he mutters. 

“Hey, I think it’s a good thing,” Sapnap says, casting about for his inventory. Dream is a trader, even to his friends. “You ever think about how we used to be on our first legs of civilization.” a map unfolds in his hands, muddied and dried two times over. It’s scrap, barely legible. “The villagers... They'll be like us. We’d have a harder time killing them.” 

Dream takes the map as trade. 

Sapnap shrugs, “It’s the same for Piglins.” 

* * *

The House sits on an oasis in the sky, a sturdy, unstoppable brick structure which obliterates any tenuous cloud tumbling onto its path. It’s surrounded by barren land, ground uprooted and replaced with black stone, away from the towns and cities. It can‘t be called a house fully; it doesn’t have the sloping, roof shingles, and the walls glow with the force of the beacon beaming light into the heavens, emitting that strange, sub-vocal hum. The man who lives in it must be very strange. 

Techno knows the man who lives in it, and he can confirm that the man is indeed very strange. He grabs the building blocks he has before making the torturously slow climb upwards. The wind huffs and puffs across his fur, as if in welcome when he sets his boots onto the ground. 

There are pots on the sky island, harboring strange, wild plants. _Look at them,_ the faces in mossy vines chant. _They look familiar. They look familiar. They look familiar._

_They look familiar._

_They look familiar._

“Stop spamming.” he says, pulled out of him dry and reluctant. “I won’t look at them.” He knocks on the door. 

The wait is a minute at most, but Techno stares at his feet, counting. 

He’s been doing a lot of wandering, or, he hasn’t stopped. His boots are muddied digging into marshes, the smell of seawater worms insistent under his clothes; it’s all going to have to be washed. Called back, following whatever catches his fancy and squeezing every ounce of will, until it disappears and he’s left trying to find another one. Always called back to the House. 

The House is where _they_ are. 

New brothers, the faces in the flowers say. Not new, not old, brothers. “There shouldn’t be a distinction.” he mutters under his breath with reproach. 

He wonders if they think about him when he’s gone. He doesn’t. 

_“Techno?”_

Philza’s hair is cut shorter than it was the last time he was here, brushed back behind his ears. “You’re _here.”_

“You look the same.” he replies, his eyes dropping to the embroidery decorating the front of Phil’s clothes. It’s the face that’s important, but if he stares at the face, Phil will know something’s up. “This man looks the same.” 

Philza laughs, a warm hand coming down to clap him on the shoulder. “Techno, you bastard.” He wants a hug, Techno can tell. He lets his fingers brush against the sleeve of his robe, in a vague attempt, and when Philza drags him into a hug, he turns his head to look. 

Human faces have stayed the same for a long time. 

He would’ve remembered if they changed. 

The thing that attacked him had a funny face. 

"I’m back to check on you,” he says. He needs to see if humans look like that now, which, voila, they do not. 

Job done. 

“Tommy and Wilbur’s gonna be so happy, did you see ‘em?” 

He pats Phil on the back helplessly. The glee in his voice is impossible to untangle, a honey trap Techno had seen coming and could not find it in himself to sidestep. He never manages to sidestep Phil, so more often than not, he’d stopped trying. “I think if I saw them, you’d know,” he nearly says, only to be drowned out by a clamouring shout. 

“I saw him, I swear I saw him!” 

“Oh god...” 

Phil wheezes on his own laughter, doubling over to clutch his belly. His smile is too broad for Techno to look at properly, unable to confront him head-on without being overthrown by the urge to step away. 

“Tech-no _blade._ ” 

The small one is called Tommy. His voice is a confident, affected snap, pitched just low enough that it sounds like it hurts to say. Tommy’s lost some of his baby fat. 

Less pale, less pink. His joints are no longer as knobby as Techno remembers, the sun has darkened his hair some, falling across his face in a disarray. Imitating Wilbur, maybe, although with not nearly as many curls- why are they both tall. 

He takes a step back when Wilbur towers over him. “The way your smile reaches your eyes is sweet, but your height.” Techno says, “It intimidates me.” 

Wilbur laughs, “It’s your fault,” he says, with too much affection in his voice, softened around the edges. 

“Yeah, you’re shorter as a pig, y’know.” 

He stares at Tommy, his brows creasing. “I am _not._ " 

There is a small room at the end of the hall. From it hang a variety of cloaks, robes, _haori_ 's that Phil doesn't wear. Its interior is birch bleached white, it smells freshly painted every time he steps foot behind the door. He changes there. Phil insisted the first time around, when it was only the two of them and Phil had been the only one to know - now, Techno makes for the room on habit. Behind the shuttered doors, he hears the sloping pitches of Tommy's voice. The light hums above his head, casting orange shadows. The floorboards are smeared brown with dirt, and he remembers only belatedly, staring down at the off-white, that Philza enjoys walking barefoot in the house. He makes a half-hearted attempt to rub it away, sweeping his cloak behind him carefully. 

The first things to go are the cufflinks; weighted golden discs at the ends of his cuffs, he unpins them, presses them into his palm until they're warm and slips them into his pockets. The lace of his clothes is old, near breaking apart by the threads. It’s no longer white, yellowing. He has to be careful taking it off, doesn’t he, if he doesn’t want to find a new one? 

He folds his cloak over the beam. Beside it is a plain cotton shirt, an old gift from an old friend.

His skin comes away as easily as breathing, like a familiar winter coat shaken off by the door. Winter seems a poor choice of words when it is fire that lives in its pores, it smells like smoke and dust and he savours its warmth between his fingers. 

It’s Wilbur’s turn. 

The Madam would be restless in the depths of the Basin if she saw the prints that have stained his fur, swallowing lava in an immortal fury. Ach, but what the heck. Impropriety died many moons ago. Technoblade rubs his thumb against the scarring beneath his furs - he gets to make his own rules, and he won't regret Wilbur. He remembers the smell of rain had been pinprick sharp on his tongue, which had been perfect for the scene he'd been going for. Wilbur had no idea why Phil ducked out of the conversation, he'd been impatient when Technoblade left him too, which severely dampened the hype, but-

When Techno held out the coat.

When Techno held out his coat, his crown slipping over his eyes, he had only seen a little of Wilbur's face. What he had seen, had been more than he'd wanted to. The way Wilbur’s expression shattered, the way he hugged it to his chest as if it were a very fine, bejeweled gown. His fingers were cold when he took it from Techno - he might have been trying to keep himself warm, Techno doesn't know, and he doesn't want to think too hard on it.

“I’m gonna want that back.” he had said.

“I’ll give it back.” Wilbur had replied, his eyes wet under the torchlight, but he hadn’t stopped looking. “I’ll always give it back.” 

Yeah, Wilbur is sentimental. He gets sappy. Techno pulls the shirt over his head, grunting quietly when the cotton tugs on the needle of his rings. Phil's installed a mirror, half-hiding behind the gowns. He looks at it only once, but there's no reason to; after all, he never remembers if he’s changed. The man in the mirror stares back at him, and he can’t pick out the differences. His hair is the same greasy peach-colour, made more prominent by the lighting, his apples of his cheeks are in the same position, he has the two eyes. He thinks he looks proper. 

He gathers his coat in his hands.

They’re clustered at door. Tommy doesn’t stop talking, if anything, seeing Techno has him spitting out more words than he can keep up with.

Wilbur's arms are out before he steps over the threshold. “Thanks,” Wilbur says, smoothening a hand down the coat. “We’ll get it to a leatherworker right away.” 

Tommy shrieks with laughter. 

“It gets funnier every time you say it.” he replies dryly. 

Wilbur smacks Tommy’s hand away from the coat, and they have dinner.

He has dinner. 

They don’t ask if he’s staying long, they know he’s leaving when he asks for his skin back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Techno takes an L.

Green is an eyesore in the desert. 

Techno's been in an endless plateau of sand for an hour, until he imagines that he feels white grains needling into the thick leather of his boots. His pig skin takes the brunt of the heat, a glaring eye in the sky, he’s a red flag on the horizon, overlooking dunes. There’s not many people out here, this far away; if he had not a single-minded focus of scouring secrets of this plain world, he wouldn’t be here at all. He ought to build something for himself far away, make it something of a... base of operation.

It can't be the house.

The house doesn't like the smell of blood and meat. He has to make sure to wash every time he goes back, which is a... a good habit to get into.

He sees the green and thinks it’s a mirage, drawn from his own rambling to stare at the bobbing spot.

He knows a little something about mirages. They pop up here and there, like an errant weed, inconsequential if he doesn't stray from his path – it’s just weird that the one he’s seeing is the funny little man who fought him yesterday. The other day. He’s almost offended that brain would toss this creature out, until the man hones in on him like a beacon. 

Techno turns to look behind him.

Nothin’ but sand. 

The ground shifts. He turns back slowly to regard it. 

The hood it wears shrouds its face, with the sun hanging directly overhead in comparison to the gloom of their first meeting, he sees both more and less. Its clothes are strategic, comfortable in its practicality- outside the choice of colour, which Techno peers at critically. The face that he had first seen, a shambling, heart-stopping mimic, is a crude carving in a bone mask. 

His eyesight is terrible. It's the one thing he'll give humans- their eyes are far better than his own.

He needs new glasses. 

The man moves silent above the persistent cries of the wind; Techno, despite his hearing, hadn't even heard it approach, but here it is, standing a foot away, hoisting an axe over a sharp shoulder. Easily, though sorely, replaced, he suspects. 

“Finally.” it says quietly, not really to Techno. 

Did it… _track_ him? 

He regards it again, wary all over again. Enemies, he knows, but to have one hunt him down, well that's a different story, isn't it? If they’d met before, worlds away from the hub, he doesn’t remember, and this thing hasn’t acted very much like an enemy. 

He’s been wrong before. 

His attention is snagged on the distinct whir of something summoned. In its left hand, the golden brick is a luminous lure, a pounding white under the glare of the sun. It’s an unwilling weakness, and he’s spent too long alone to be tempted by a singular brick, no matter how pretty it shines. He’s in no mood for indulgence when he’d been attacked last time.

The man flicks it high into the air, catches it in one hand absently. 

“Do you even still have the axe,” it asks, quiet, good natured.

Techno tips his head to consider it. He's not seen a more suspicious man in a long while. 

The axe. Mending, Efficiency III, Power IV, et cetera, et cetera – it's a fine axe, but not one worth tracking over. Techno knows a vendetta when he sees one, and he fights to keep the snarling grin off his face. The gold brick disappears in the man’s hand, and when it says, “Nowhere to run.”, its voice is sly.

Running.

Techno doesn’t rethink his fights; some of them are closer than he likes, some of them end with his blood on the rocks. He hates it, etches his deaths into his coat to count the lives he’s thrown away. He runs to keep himself _alive,_ but Technoblade knows only one way to stop someone. He’s not been impressed yet, and you know what? He materializes the axe, grinning. Perhaps the man would like to fight for it. 

The mask dips to stare at the axe in silence.

Techno rolls his eyes.

He swings first. 

The force of its shield knocks him back. 

Ah, it’s a different one. Stronger. The polished steel frame gleams smugly with new enchantments, Techno lets out a quiet noise of surprise before he ducks a heaving sweep of the axe. It comes as a gut-wrenching realisation when there’s movement out of the corner of his eye. His side twinges violently in an aborted twist, the man kicks him down. 

The sand buries gleefully into his clothes when he hits the ground. The snarl rumbling in his throat, he lurches to the side to avoid the shield ramming downwards. 

As if _knowing_ , there’s the face of an axe swinging towards his head. He kicks his leg out, smacking against the other man’s shin, and brings its weight tumbling down. 

He casts the fishing rod before it’s properly summoned. The hook sinks into its side with a vengeance, pulling a grunt from its throat. He kneels onto its chest, its neck is as soft as a human’s, when Techno presses his arm down, curved over it, his cloak settling like a fog over the both of them. 

He barely notices when it _speaks._

“You’re not a Piglin.” its voice is coiled tight, laboured; no doubt the pressure on its chest hurts. “There’s no way.” 

Techno smiles.

He enjoys compliments. Feels himself preen, his teeth sharp.

“This _is_ a pretty nice axe.” he says quietly, his ears flicking, like in thought. Like he doesn’t abhor the way an axe feels in his hands. “And you know... you _did_ attack me.” 

It makes a noise; an exhale, almost a laugh that sounds halfway to disbelieving, with not nearly enough fear. 

Techno thinks he’s earned a little bit of fear. “I think I should get to keep it.” he says, in what is a very reasonable tone of voice. 

There’s a beat where he waits. That's what you’re supposed to do, when you speak. Wait for an answer. Techno knows this much, leaning forward to eye the edge of the mask.

The man disappears under him. 

His boots thump against the dirt, and he braces himself with his palms. What the hell is- a hook into the threads of his cape tugs him roughly backwards, hard enough that he's off the ground, scrabbling to find his footing. When he kicks out, his heels barely touch sand before it falls out under him, reveals the hollow drop into an abyss.

He's not _surviving_ that. He casts for his bow, levels it at the man when he plummets. It is holding aloft in its hand, waving jauntily.

Wait. 

That’s _his_ fishing rod.

His arrow hits before he does, and when he opens his eyes, Wilbur stares at him in shock across the old, birch room.

* * *

“You’re back!” Wilbur says numbly, clambering to his feet. Sleeves bunched at his elbows fall to his wrists. “How are you..." 

There’s a look on Techno’s face that is akin to retribution. He stares Wilbur down, his mouth pressed in a thin line, rows of teeth folded behind his lips. 

Wilbur’s shoes drag on the floor louder than necessary. He asks, “What happened?”, with a friendly ease. He hadn’t meant to stay at Phil’s for so long, not when Phil’s out himself, and he certainly hadn’t meant to intrude on Techno. 

Techno’s eyes are pinned to the spot he’d been crouched. “I was being dramatic and it cost me everything.” 

He doesn’t remember the last time he saw Techno _come back._ Come back that way. “Okay... you haven’t taken off your skin,” he says, strokes a hand down the hair aside Techno's cheek with the back of his knuckles. It's casual, but he's immensely aware of the heat that warms him immediately, even seconds after it's passed. “I think it could, um, help,” 

“I’m not stayin'.” Techno replies, clockwork. 

He turns to look at Wilbur, shaken out of his own head by alarm. His voice is scrapes on the bristles of his tongue, flat enough that Wilbur regrets touching him. 

"Oh." he says, like it’s been startled out of him, like it’s no big deal. “I mean, I’ve got... a project, coming up soon,” 

He likes to cut at pieces of the universe, space-time and all, for his own sordid amusement. It’s something Techno enjoys participating in, slipped in through the cracks to play little games. Wilbur catches him only sometimes. His worlds start and end on the day, he imagines they die the same way a star dies, all the way up in the sky. Turns cold, collapse inwards. 

"It could take your mind off, well,"

Techno doesn’t even pretend to contemplate his offer, his eyes black and dispassionate. "... No," he says, moves with an accuracy to the door. He isn’t talking to Wilbur when he says, "It was _so_ far away."

And it sounds so ridiculous, but when Techno talks like that, when he vibrates with dry, deflective fury underneath his plaintive moaning, he seems taller than Wilbur, bigger than Wilbur. Don’t get in the way, Phil says, don’t get in Techno’s way. 

Wilbur leans his hip against the door, and it clicks shut.

"Hey, um, just a little while then, we can hang out." Techno’s brows furrow. "We missed you, big man."

Techno’s eyes, wandering, returns to him, just barely. He wears emotion like an ill-fitting suit, worse when he’s taken aback. 

He’s always taken aback. 

"You have until the afternoon. Then I go."

* * *

“Big D!” is a bellow that ricochets across the little slipshod diner, and Dream knows its owner before he turns around. “Hey, how’s it going? How _are_ you?” 

“Good,” he replies, too pleased with himself to keep the grin from his voice. “It’s going good, Tommy. How are you?” 

Tommy is a boy with little reservation for propriety; he’s taller than he should be, and doesn’t look half as ridiculous in a suit as he does in his plain cotton shirt. “Oh here and there,” he blusters, and his shoes make an ear-piercing shriek across the wooden floors where he comes to a stop at the bar. “You look like shit, by the way- I’ve been setting a lot of traps.” he says, smacking his palms onto the counter with relish. “It’s a riot over here. What brings you to our side of the woods?”

Dream chuckles.

He wouldn’t say he’s wandered that far. The family restaurant sits at the side of a great lake across George’s pier. If anything, Tommy's the one who’s wandered. He shakes his head. “Exploring." he responds delicately, feeling the burn of sand on his skin. The arrow that landed to his shoulder got him only out of pure shock. No one falling a steep death would choose fight over grabbing an actual water bucket, no one but animals, and Dream had been _so_ sure. "You see anything weird from the Nether recently Tommy?” 

Tommy scrunches his nose in thought. “No. There's really nothing to do there, everything’s up here.” 

“Are you sure?” he presses. He admits he's been lagging behind, preoccupied with his own projects, and so he hasn't been to the Nether in a while - he would have heard. He's sure he would have. “Any stories you been hearing?” 

Tommy opens his mouth, then hesitates, casting him a shrewd look. “What’s all this about?” 

He stares back impassively. 

Tommy’s throat works. He swallows once before he breaks into a grin. “Alright, hah! Hey, that’s your business, that’s your business! None of mine.” he slaps Dream on the shoulder and withdraws with a quiet grimace when Dream looks down at his shoulder. Good kid, touchy.

“Oh yeah,"

He didn't see Tubbo there. The boy is smaller at least, easier to manage with not twice the ego. "Mr. Blade’s back, he might know something about that!" Tubbo pauses, "But he’s in a bad mood. Better not bother him.” 

“Tubbo, don’t talk about him like that,” Tommy brushes off, “Yeah, he’s in a pissy mood, cause he's _bad_ at surviving. But you know what?” Tommy scratches at the back of his head, craning his neck to look out the swinging door, “Maybe he knows something about whatever you’re pushing me for.” 

Dream casts for recollection of the name, tipping his head. 

One of Tommy’s nicknames. 

“He likes exploring- he's literally never at home, I swear it’s like he’s not even alive most times,” 

“It’s not a big deal,” he waves off, “I was just wondering if there were any changes.” 

“You know they’re getting smarter!” Tommy exclaims, “Ever since the excavation, the Nether’s really opened up.” 

“Oh yeah?” he echoes indulgently, “What do you think about it?” 

Tommy rolls his eyes hard enough that it looks like it hurts, his eyes flashing. “You’ll not believe how many times I lost my stuff there now, thing’s impossible to get through. Got a big gash trying to get into a- a- what's it called? One of the pig things,” 

“A bastion.” he says quietly. 

Tommy blows air from his mouth, “Yep, they’re like crazy strong. Stronger than they should be.” 

Why hadn’t he gone looking for a bastion? It seemed the best place to find pigmen. Dream stares at the sharp nick engraved into the countertop, his fingers soothing down its sides absently. Piglins aren't that strong - it had spoken to him, its amusement sharpened on the knife's edge of its rasp. Dream doesn't think he's an idiot, so why does asking questions make him feel like the butt of some cosmic joke. Its movements were precise, not so much fluid as unerring in its single-mindedness, its monstrous force belying the wit behind its blows. “I think I _will_ do that." he draws out, "... Thanks for the tip, Tommy,” 

“ _Huh_?” Tommy takes a step back when he moves, which is amusing, “Oh yeah, you’re a busy man, I can respect it. I can understand it- Have a good one, Dream.” 

He lets out a laugh.

“You too, Tommy.” 

* * *

Tommy appears at Wilbur’s little gateway to call them boring. He looks insulted he hasn’t been invited to join Wilbur’s world, his feet tap-tap-tapping on stone impatiently, his arms crossed over his chest and his tacky red and white shirt. His sneer is well-worn when he bellows it across the field, but Wilbur thinks Techno deserves boring. Pretends he doesn't smell the blood. Bad mood is redeemed, always, with blood. 

“Everyone’s leaving me out of things.” Tommy mutters, “You couldn't wait? Why’s he still in that thing?” 

“That’s my skin you’re talkin’ about Tommy.” Techno calls, content to watch Wilbur orchestrate. His hands have been jittery, nothing Wilbur does makes his eyes clearer, but he talks when he hears his name. 

“First Dream, then you, I’m not respected here.” 

"Dream?" Wilbur parrots, startled. Tommy looks back at him, more annoyed than confused, like he doesn’t remember Wilbur’s own reservations about Dream, about ambition confronted with Techno. He probably doesn’t, Tommy’s world is shrunk down to himself, and on occasion, Wilbur, Techno and Phil. He glances at Techno, who promptly loses interest when he realises Wilbur’s taken the mantle of _conversation_. "What'd he want?" 

"He was asking around about the Nether, looked kinda worked up," 

Techno, his crown dipping over his eyes, pulling dandelion seeds out of his cape, doesn't ask. Most probably because he doesn't much care for either Wilbur or Tommy’s friends. Wilbur mulls over the string between them when it’s become late into the night, holding a world open on a whim. It’s a treasured rarity to see him, his fur sticking on end when he’s harried, the lazy wave of his hand, picking at his sharp nails. 

Wilbur is too much for Techno sometimes; Techno is too bad of a liar to really reassure him otherwise. 

"Worked up?” he echoes, “How'd you know that, you can't even see his face." 

"It was the vibe, bro." Tommy says, navigates Wilbur’s little clip of the universe without grace. "You know it’s got me thinking, what with us here now- what if we all go on a fun trip, to the Nether." 

Wilbur turns to look at Techno, his machinations forgotten. "Ah, he's spacing out." 

Tommy clicks his tongue sharply. His height's given him confidence he doesn't deserve, or- Wilbur doesn't think on this - or it had been... too long that he'd seen Techno, that he forgets how to treat him, because Tommy, movements big and loud, snaps his fingers in front of Techno’s face. Wilbur smacks him away before there’s a sword at the dip of his throat, his heart plummeting to his stomach, catching the way the thin film of white slips over Techno's eyes in the light of the sunset, the shift of his armour when he comes back to himself. There is nothing in his hands, doused in red fabric.

"You wanna go on a Nether trip?" Tommy asks, his hands perched on his hips. 

Techno hums with his chest, drawn longer than necessary, and a rejection all on its own. He turns his head slowly to look at Tommy like he’s disappointed in him, “And why would I wanna do that?” he asks airily. 

"Cause it’s a bro trip!” Tommy snorts, rolling his eyes so hard he rolls his entire head with it. “And I don’t think you’d wanna miss a piece of history, I mean, the Piglins get smarter every day, the excavation,” 

Techno stares at the little people beneath them, his eyes flicking between their heads as if counting. He sounds casual, nonchalant. "And what did they... what have they found?" 

"They found buildings," 

"The fortresses," Techno says, nodding to himself. 

Tommy scratches at his neck, "No, new ones." he corrects, and he's gotten better at making sure his voice doesn't crack recently, but when he speaks next, it edges higher, into a pressed-soft pleading that he has not worked on Wilbur in years, "Ones that, um, you know, they're piglin infested, almost. I thought you'd be interested, we could, make it a family, excursion." his eyes track Techno's face, grimaces, then says quickly, "We don't even need to involve Dream really," 

Techno stares at his hands.

Wilbur doesn't even think he remembers they were talking about anything outside each other.

"It doesn't sound that interestin'." he says at last. 

Tommy looks at Wilbur, his eyes so wide on his face they look bulbous, mouthing something so comically exaggerated that it becomes impossible to catch catch. He's trying to look pitiful, or convincing, which, if Tommy thinks Wilbur can persuade Techno of anything Techno doesn’t want to do, they’ve really been filling the kid’s head with nonsense. He shrugs helplessly, returning to the cell in which his denizens are piling for approval, not before he catches the eye roll thrown his way. "Doesn't?" Tommy prods, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his thighs. 

Techno makes a noise of agreement, bringing his cloak to eye-level. "Well, I could be doin' other things, Tommy." 

"What are you so busy with, huh?" 

Techno laughs. It’s soft, longing. His grin is wide, almost cheesy when he directs his teeth at Tommy, "Killing people?" He asks, tipping his face to the light, the sting softened by the way he pauses to watch Tommy pick at the weeds that have found their way into his clothes. 

Wilbur avoids his eyes, leaning over to brush dandelion fluff from the edge of his cloak. “You missed one.” 

"Yeah,” Tommy mutters, “Your eyesight is shit, old man.” 

Techno pats down at his clothes. “Two hours, Wilbur.” he says, doesn’t see, or doesn’t care, of the way Tommy’s expression shutters. 

The world closes when Techno leaves; it’s well into the evening. 

* * *

The Blood God is an old story. 

It runs in obscure circles, revived every few years. He doesn't engage in championships, he prefers the stealth of travel to death matches, but Dream puts his ears to the ground, and among gladiators, word gets around. None more infamous than the wild champion, born in bloodsport. Its roots are old, questions crop among the young when a new massacre surfaces. But Dream was not a child when the Blood God rose, and he knows the stories, has watched the wide screens eagerly, just to catch a glimpse of the Hub's most detested front-runner. 

The nobody king.

He hates to disappoint himself, hates even more to _embarrass_ himself.

Did he really mistake the Blood God for a Piglin?

Did he _kill_ the Blood God?

The tournaments rarely feature him. Dream barely knows what he looks like, but a pig in a crown doesn't come about every day, and he didn't- well, mean to kill him.

He takes a moment to check the needle of his compass. He's only a few chunks away from civilisation, when the grass smells like festering copper. Hooking a finger beneath the cusp of his mask, he tilts it upwards gently and the smell worsens. The wind is hot for an evening, as if dense in warning to keep him away. Taking a step towards the foliage of dark oak trees, he braces a palm against a bark. 

There are never bodies at a grave, but the scattered axes dug into soft dirt, the dark patches-

Low, throaty humming weaves towards him, its notes dipping. There's a short fall where the trees cluster together, and the dropped things, the dropped items, become a mound, pushed together. The sound of water draws him closer, and he sees it before the pond. The song escapes him, deep enough that he had almost mistaken it to be mournful. It sounds cavernous, filtered with something not unlike glee, so unearthly that Dream doesn't recognize the thing in the middle of the water as a man at all.

Its hair falls over its face, in its hands it's holding the skinned head of a pig, the rest of the skin folded over its arms. Its hair ebbs and flows with its ripples, and Dream realises, suddenly, and unhelpfully, when he watches a clawed hand wipe down a red streak off the sleek skin of the coat, that it's blood he's been looking at.

He takes a step back.

The arm comes to a stop.

The blood moves in swirling patterns, gurgling water against rock.

The figure whips around, a singular, red-rimmed eye peering from the strands of slick hair curtaining his face.

Dream is long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selkie Rules (pig version haha)
> 
> 1\. A Selkie’s coat must be willingly given.
> 
> 2\. If stolen, the Selkie is compelled to stay with the one who has their coat. 
> 
> 3\. Once the Selkie discovers their skin, they will immediately return to the Nether and abandon the children they loved. 
> 
> 4\. If one wishes to make contact with their Selkie, one must gift seven Ghast tears to the lava lake in which the Selkie resides.
> 
> (the finale killed me guys im fucking dead. techno!!!!!!)

**Author's Note:**

> i have found a way to marry pig techno-human techno designs and the answer is selkie lore.
> 
> also yes, techno's chat is part of the lore now because of what he said about his chat being voices in his head that ask him to kill people.


End file.
